Pain, pain wracked him, his body spasmed again; releasing a pained sigh. He still twitched, a little, his bare torso grating on the durasteel floor, opening wounds and scraping his scarred body even more. He coughed up a mixture of blood and bile before resting his head on the floor again.
Images rushed past him, hallucinations perhaps, he couldn't tell. He saw his friends, one at a time or all at once; Kami, Tanus, Angel, Kelevra (who still had a pike jutting from his chest). Words of encouragement, condemnation, hate, love, anger and pity. The pity hurt the most, he had thrown himself at the image of Tanus, eyes full of contempt and mouth sneering at him. All the prisoner had managed to do was open another wound on his head.
It didn't matter, not really, he rolled over onto his back. His body spasmed again as infected wounds burst open, puss and bloody pouring down him and coating the floor. He kept his eyes open, force of will alone kept them open. He knew he couldn't let them close, he could feel his consciousness slipping from him but he held on as hard and as fast as he could. He kept his mind moving, kept it thinking. He ran his eyes over the iron bars holding him in the cell, the dank cell, full of mold and foul smells, he kept his ear to the floor and listened to the engines, made himself keep track of the timing.
He had finally won his world back, not just won it, he had burned it. He had sat proudly on that throne as the last of the Crusaders, or so he thought, had been hunted down and executed at his feet, even after their surrender they had never been given a chance. He had personally bound them to the stakes and crucifixes they had erected and given them the same treatment, if not worse, that they had bestowed upon his people.
His people, he made himself remember that he did have people, that he was important. That brought a smile to the Kings parched lips. Yes, he had people; he had a people hew from chaos itself.
A guard walked by, the end of his scabbard dragging along the ground; his once white tabbard was dirty and covered in grime, once shining armor was dull and soiled; his sword hung loose at his side, he didn't even seem to notice it bouncing against the ground and the back of his legs. Beneath the cowl was an unshaven face.
The King growled lowly as the man passed, but he wasn't noticed, these Crusaders seemed to walk around in a daze most of the time, when they weren't torturing him or fighting amongst themselves. They were a far cry from the fanatics that had taken his world now. He remembered them being disciplined, disciplined above all else, and hard fighters. He would curse them with his last breath, but there had been a certain grudging respect for their ability to fight, and an ounce of gratitude for giving him a real battle to fight.
With the thought of battle The Kings mind reeled off again, this time into memory, he remembered many battles, many fights, he remembered being a soldier, a stormtrooper, even an officer and an admiral before. He remembered the faces of friends past and present, some long gone, killed in one war or another or rotted away by old age. He remembered battles fought, won and lost. A black set of armor splashed in red brought him back to his days as a Stormtrooper, running black ops. He had been a prisoner once then too.
Torture had permeated a life of combat, it was not his first stint as prisoner, pain had become a constant companion to him throughout his life. Once on the water world of Da Soocha he had endured hours of it before they'd tired of him. Tired of him laughing in their face. This place was little different. It mattered little what they did, he'd been in pain before, he'd been beaten within an inch of his life and then some, the only thing separating him from the dead was the will to live, to fight and his hatred for those that caused him such pain.
These madmen had wanted to him to confess to things it seemed they didn't even understand, he had laughed in their face, bit, spit and clawed until he could not anymore; but even then he didn't give in. It was the thread thin knowledge that even if he did give in his fate would not change, either way they'd kill him eventually, he'd rather die with a little dignity.
If he did give in how would he be any different than the traitors he had condemned on Eyesore? He refused to have anything in common with them. It made him sick to even think about. They were scum, he's live, disabled and in pain if he must, but he wouldn't compromise.
His eyes snapped open in sudden defiance, for a second his blood boiled and the taint of infection seemed to lessen, he pulled himself across the floor with bloody fingers. He could see the Paladin again, laughing at him, he clawed his way across the floor to grapple with the mans ankle, sinking sharp teeth into a non-existent leg.
He laughed then, a hoarse thing, so different than his normal hearty cackle; it was still filled with madness and hate though; he rolled again onto his back. He scanned the ceiling with his eyes, just trying to keep conscious.
A loud laugh escaped his mouth again,
No Rest For The Wicked.